


But I would not feel so all alone

by rivers_bend



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drugs, M/M, Sibling Incest, Teenagers, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:10:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's lab partner gets him a good deal on some killer Humboldt buds. But Dean comes home earlier than Sam was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But I would not feel so all alone

**Author's Note:**

> So about a hundred years ago, I promised [](http://rejeneration.livejournal.com/profile)[**rejeneration**](http://rejeneration.livejournal.com/) that I would write her some stoned!Sammy fic. Better late than never.
> 
> Enticements/Warnings: Sam's 15. Drug use.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fan fiction](http://rivers-bend.livejournal.com/tag/fan%20fiction), [spn](http://rivers-bend.livejournal.com/tag/spn), [weechesters](http://rivers-bend.livejournal.com/tag/weechesters), [wincest](http://rivers-bend.livejournal.com/tag/wincest)  
  
---|---  
  
Dean's working late tonight, serving beers to loggers and fishermen, his nineteen years stretched to twenty-one thanks to an Arizona driver's license not exactly issued by the DMV. Usually he works noon to six, having promised Dad he'd be home in the evenings to keep an eye on his little brother, but Marella's off sick and Stewie begged him to work a double, leaving Sam a whole night to himself.

Sam is not entirely depressed about this—fifteen is more than old enough to take care of himself, thanks, and he has stuff to do he doesn't think Dean's going to be too happy about. Really, _really_ goooooood stuff, if Alvin is true to his word.

They've been in Eureka a month and a half, and it's boring as hell, but at least the school doesn't suck. Sam's chem lab partner is also in Sam's English and world studies classes, and Alvin and Sam have kinda become friends. As much as Sam ever makes friends, anyway. Alvin has been insisting the _only_ good thing about living all the way up here is that it's really easy to find killer weed. There aren't a lot of good things in Sam's life—he can count them on one hand with four fingers left over—and so he figures he should take whatever he can get.

"My brother gives me a deal," Alvin says, voice low in Sam's ear as they lean up against the brick gym during lunch. "I can give you a dime bag and it's only a dime."

For a minute Sam thinks of the loose change in his pocket, and wow, that really _is_ a deal, but then he catches up, pulls ten bucks out of his wallet, his money, won fair and square hustling pool down by the docks, so it's no business of Dean's what he does with it.

And if Dean's gonna work late, he never has to know.

Alvin was also good for a pack of rolling papers, threw them in for free, and Sam stopped on the way home from school to get a two-liter bottle of soda and some snacks, so he figures he's got everything he needs. What he didn't count on is that really good weed is really _strong_ weed, and it turns out all he needs after the first half a joint is a horizontal surface. He's lying on the living room floor, arms stretched out to either side and legs spread because he feels the need to be as big as possible in order to hold onto the earth, when the front door opens.

"Dude," Dean says, before the door even shuts again, "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Sam manages to get his eyes open, thinking for a minute he's going to have to somehow lift a hand off the floor to use his fingers to pry his eyelids up, but then realizing that isn't actually going to happen because his arms are glued down, so he struggles with just the muscles in his face. "Uh," he says.

Dean's eyes track from the joint still pinched between the fingers of Sam's right hand, to the baggie of weed on the couch, back to Sam's face. "Dad would skin you _alive_ if he saw this."

"Dad isn't _here_," Sam totally wants to say. "Dad fucked off to hunt something in the mountains and he's not going to be back until next month at the earliest." But what actually comes out of his mouth sounds more like, "Pffffft."

"How much of that shit did you smoke?" The door shuts and Dean takes another step into the room.

Sam manages to wiggle the fingers holding the joint enough to get Dean's attention.

"Half a jay? Are you kidding me?"

"S'good stuffffff," Sam manages. And then something that is supposed to be, "Why are you home so early?" He can tell it's not right, but he's not sure how bad it is.

Must have been okay, though, because Dean explains that Marella felt better after a couple hours sleep and needed the money. He drops his coat, bends down to pluck the joint from Sam's hand, and settles on the couch. If Sam tilts his head back, he can see Dean's legs stretching out between the cushion and the coffee table. They look really long and they wiggle a little as Dean reaches into his pocket for his Zippo.

"Hey, that's mine," Sam protests.

"It can be your contribution to the groceries this week," Dean says, sparking his lighter and bringing the joint to his lips.

Sam's not sure why Dean's allowed to smoke and he isn't, but he knows arguing with him is going to be too hard in his current state, so he just sighs. Having his head so far back is making him dizzy, so Sam looks at the ceiling again. But then Dean seems too far away.

"You should come down here," Sam says. "You're gonna want to lie down. Trus' me on this."

He's really surprised that Dean does as he's told. He slithers off the couch and nudges Sam's arm closer to his body so there's room to lie with his head near Sam's hips, his waist in line with Sam's shoulder. Sam thinks about the fact that if he could lift his arm up and spread it out again it would be lying on his brother's chest. It would feel like he was pressing Dean down through the floor. It might be so heavy Dean couldn't breathe. It's hard for Sam to breathe even thinking about it.

"I don't think your arm's that heavy," Dean says.

"Can you read my mind?" Sam thinks he should know if Dean can suddenly read minds.

"No, dude, you're babbling about crushing me with your arm. I don't think it would crush me. It probably weighs like six ounces." Dean laughs like that's the best insult ever.

And he's totally wrong. Sam's arm weighs at least thirty pounds. "Try to lift it," Sam says. He bets Dean totally can't.

Dean reaches over with his far hand and lifts Sam's arm up in the air, laying it across his chest. Sam's hand flops down so his fingers brush against the carpet. It feels really weird. Dean's chest is hot, like the radiator that was next to the bed in the house in Main they squatted in one winter.

"You're not crushing me," Dean says, though his voice is tighter than it was before, so he's probably lying. Except then he exhales and a billow of smoke floats up towards the ceiling.

Okay, maybe Sam's not crushing him. Crushing _on_ him, though. That's another story.

"Who are you crushing on?" Dean props his head on one fist so he can look over Sam's arm at Sam's face.

"No one." Shit. Alvin never mentioned that you couldn't tell when you were talking and when you were just thinking after smoking this stuff.

"What's her name?" Dean persists.

"There is no her," Sam says, even though he means to just ignore Dean completely.

"Uh huh." Dean tries to take another hit from the joint, but it's gone out so he starts wiggling to get his lighter out of his pocket again. The wiggling jiggles Sam's arm. It feels like it's jiggling his dick.

Now would be a really good time for smoker's droop. Sam isn't sure if you even get smoker's droop like you do drinker's droop, or whatever you call it when you drink too much, but he's hoping. Really, really hoping. Because Dean's head is practically right _there_ in line with Sam's dick and if he turns his head—

"Sam?" Fuck. Dean has not only turned his head, he's propped himself up on both elbows and his eyes are flicking from Sam's crotch to his face.

"Um." Fuckity fuck. "Um," Sam repeats. Apparently when he actually _wants_ to form words, his tongue won't comply. But when he'd be better off keeping things to himself it flaps around just fine.

"How stoned _are_ you?"

Not stoned enough to miss the fact that when Dean sat up it pushed Sam's arm down so that it's lying almost in Dean's lap. The kind of almost that has his forearm across the part of Dean that Sam is not supposed to be touching. He doesn't want to move it.

"Stoned," Sam says, lying perfectly still, hoping that if he doesn't move nothing bad will happen. He's not sure what bad is, exactly, but it has something to do with Dean noticing that his little brother is pretty much groping him and that it's making said little brother's dick even harder than it was already.

"Does it, um, always have this effect on you?" Dean's still looking at Sam's crotch, but he hasn't moved Sam's arm.

"Never tried it before." Which is the wrong answer. He could have said yes, and he wouldn't have been lying, and it would have sounded like the woody was nothing to do with Dean.

"Huh," Dean says, like this is really interesting. Then, thank god, he lies down again, relighting the joint and taking a long drag.

"C'n I have s'more?" Sam forgets he was going to stay still and waggles his fingers, which rubs his arm up against Dean's dick.

"Dude," Dean says reproachfully.

Sam snatches his arm away, starting to apologize, but Dean continues, "Don't you think you've had enough for now?"

Then he reaches over and picks up Sam's arm, laying it across his hips again, only this time with Sam's hand right next to his dick instead of dangling down onto the floor. While Sam's trying to figure out if Dean actually _meant_ to do this, Dean picks up his own hand and mirrors Sam's position. An inch in and they'd be giving each other hand jobs.

"I will if you will," Dean says, smoke billowing around his words.

Apparently that speaking thoughts out loud thing is still going on.

"You want to give me a hand job?" Sam tries to sound like the idea isn't making his heart pound its way out of his chest.

"You haven't had a hand job until you've had a hand job while you're stoned. It's fucking awesome."

Sam's never had a hand job at all, if his own hand doesn't count, but he doesn't mention that. Instead, he says, "Yeah. Sure. Why not?"

Oh, maybe because Dean's his brother, and Sam's ridiculously in love with him and certain Dean doesn't feel the same way, and Dean's had about a billion hand jobs from people who are probably tons better at it than Sam and he's going to laugh, and _god_, Sam really hopes that his mouth isn't sharing any of this with Dean.

He guesses not when Dean doesn't say anything, just wiggles around until his head is next to Sam's and he's close enough that Sam could just lift up a little and kiss him. "Oh," Sam says when Dean reaches down and starts unbuttoning his fly.

"You first." Dean is whispering, his face so close to Sam's that their noses are brushing, but he's not making any move to kiss him.

Of course. Why would Dean want to kiss his dorky little brother? Sam shakes his head slightly, trying to get rid of the image of Dean dropping down that last half an inch. But then Dean's got his hand in Sam's boxers, wrapping around his dick, and kissing or not doesn't matter because, _oh, fuck_, this is amazing.

At some point Dean must have licked his hand or something because it's slick and hot, just the right amount of tug and friction. Sam makes a totally embarrassing noise, but can't quite be embarrassed about it. He manages not to beg, or say Dean's name, but it takes every ounce of concentration he can wrestle away from what's happening in his pants. Then Dean starts rocking his own dick against Sam's hip and Sam breaks.

"Kiss me, Dean, please, fucking kiss me."

Before Sam can die of shame, Dean does, groaning hungrily like he's been waiting for Sam to ask.

Sam feels like his mouth is melting against Dean's lips, falling open so Dean can lick inside, suck on Sam's tongue. Sam can't breathe and doesn't care—he's flying, untethered from the earth, only inside his own body because Dean is holding him there with the hand on Sam's cock and the heat of his mouth. Moaning and whimpering noises fill Sam's ears and he doesn't know if it's him or Dean or both making them.

Jerking off is something Sam usually does quickly, too often trying to finish before someone knocks on the bathroom door or his dad or brother comes back from wherever he's gone, but this feels like it's never going to stop. In a way that's both amazing and maybe a little painful. Just when he thinks he's going to be teetering on the edge of coming _forever_, Dean stops kissing him to whisper, "You gonna come now? Gonna come for me?"

Apparently the answer is yes.

The orgasm starts in his toes and his skin and the roots of his hair and rushes inwards to his cock. He's pretty sure he can feel the jizz shooting through his dick. Dean was _so_ not kidding about the awesomeness of stoned hand jobs. Even better, it lasts about a week.

Unfortunately it also seems to have left him paralyzed from the scalp down, but Sam's convinced that's a price worth paying.

"Hey, Sammy, breathe for me." Dean is right there, only three or four inches away, but his voice is coming from across the room. Sam's brain takes a moment to process the words. When they finally make sense, he gasps, and the feeling starts to return to his body.

"Wow," Sam says. "Wowwwwww."

Dean laughs at him and looks pretty darned pleased with himself.

Then Sam remembers. "You gonna let me return the favor?"

"Um," Dean says. And turns pink.

"Um?" Sam wonders if Dean thinks Sam won't be able to do it. Or maybe this was just a joke, and he doesn't want Sam to touch him. Sam pulls away.

"I maybekindajizzedinmypants." Dean takes Sam's hand and puts it against the wet spot on the front of his jeans.

"Oh!" Sam doesn't laugh at his brother. Mostly because he's too turned on by the idea that Dean got off just from touching Sam's dick. But also because he really wants to do this again, and he's not sure laughing at Dean is the best way to make that happen.

"You can do it later. If—you know, if you still want to."

That does make Sam laugh, but before Dean can get offended, he manages to say, "I've wanted to for like a _year_. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna want to later."

"Oh." Dean looks incredibly relieved. "Okay then. Good." He's even pinker now, and it's kind of adorable. Sam must be stoned, because "adorable" isn't a word he's used to associating with his big brother.

Dean lies down and pulls Sam against his side. "In the meantime, napping," he says, lips against Sam's hair.

It sounds like a plan.


End file.
